Prodigal Son
by Xirysa
Summary: FE7. "Yet she / Will be / False, ere I come, to two, or three." She came to him one dark night. Lloyd and Sonia.


Prodigal Son

-x-x-x-

_If thou find'st one, let me know,_  
_Such a pilgrimage were sweet;_  
_Yet do not, I would not go,_  
_Though at next door we might meet,_  
_Though she were true, when you met her,_  
_And last, till you write your letter,_  
_Yet she_  
_Will be_  
_False, ere I come, to two, or three._

—John Donne, "Song"

-x-x-x-

A dim twilight at the advent of a graying Bernese winter, when the packed ground grew cold with frost and the wind rattled past the windows of the old fortress they all, in some way or another, called home—that was the first time he saw her, clad in a dark tight-fitting robe as she clung to his father's arm. She smiled at him, her strange golden eyes reflecting the torchlight, but he felt no warmth from the pale face and ruby lips. Instead he felt malice, the chill of some ancient evil he could not name; it was all he could do to not shudder when they passed him by as the pair made their way to his father's private rooms.

Sonia was her name, he later learned, a mage-woman his father had met near the Lycian border and brought with him to the heart of the Black Fang when he learnt of her talents in the anima magicks. But the amount of time she spent with his father, the unrestrained sounds of their passion echoing through the keep at night, gave fodder to the suspicions growing in his mind and heart, and when his father voiced his intent to wed the strange woman mere weeks after her arrival he found himself unsurprised, though he could not help but wonder at the radical change in his father's behavior.

And so Brendan Reed took a new wife, and with her came yet another addition to their family: the girl Nino, whose presence in the musty air of the fortress was like that of a clean spring breeze—a far cry from her mother, whose aura was a dark, suffocating mass, a foul plague whose cure was unknown.

The dynamic between the two was unlike any interaction he had ever witnessed between mother and child. It was obvious that Sonia cared little for the girl, and so the task of raising her fell to the members of the Black Fang, to Legault and Uhai and Jan, and he and his brother Linus as their great leader Brendan Reed whiled away his time behind closed doors with his new woman.

Spending time with the girl took his mind off such thoughts about his father, and soon he came to love Nino as if she was his trueborn sister, born of the same flesh and blood as he and Linus. But he saw how she trailed after her mother like some lost little lamb as Sonia looked down at her in scorn, raised a hand in retribution for some slight misdemeanor—a small stain on her skirt, tripping on a raised flagstone as she ran after Jan as they played some silly game in the fortress's cold halls. He would see Nino crying at night when she thought no one was watching, one pale hand held to her face as a bruise blossomed under one eye and she whispered to herself, _"It's alright, it's okay—Mother loves you. This is just how she shows it—she just wants you to be better."_

Sonia had a way with people, he realized one day as she met with the assassin Jaffar—she drew them toward her and then bent them to her will. It had worked with Nino and his father, and though many of the Black Fang were still wary of her, it had begun to have its affect on them as well.

She was like some twisted rose, her strange beauty bringing them close, while her thorns lay waiting to prick at soft flesh beneath the dark leaves.

But he knew better.

-x-x-x-

The days began to grow longer, and soon the first moments of spring were upon them. Brendan Reed sent for him one afternoon after he had returned from a minor job in the south, and upon his arrival quickly found himself in his father's office with his brother at his side. Sonia stood just beyond them at their father's side, the corners of her mouth lifted up in the smirk she always seemed to wear as she traced lazy circles on Brendan's shoulder. The silence in the room was thick, disconcerting. Finally, Brendan Reed spoke, his voice gravelly and hoarse.

He would be taking a job, they were told, to the north and west. The assassination of a minor Lycian noble—the work was simple enough, the reward hefty. It was a good job. Linus was to join him, leaving his older son and new wife to watch over the keep.

"There isn't anyone else here I trust more," Brendan Reed said as his gaze traveled from his wife to his sons. "I'm counting on you—you know better than anyone the ideals of the Fang."

He nodded, closed his eyes and bowed his head. "I am honored, Father," he said.

They left at daybreak the following day, promising to return in a fortnight. He watched them from the window of his small room in the fortress until they were nothing more than dark smudges in the distance. He turned away when their figures were indistinguishable from the landscape as the rising sun painted the sky in pinks and bloody red.

The days passed in a blur, an endless cycle of relegating jobs and training, spending as much time with Nino as possible before his duties pulled him away. It was tiring, but it kept him busy, away from Sonia as she glided through the half-lit corridors of the keep like a ghost, something inhuman and not of this world.

She was always there, watching him from the shadows like a beast stalking its prey as her golden eyes glittered eerily in the gloom. It unnerved him, though he was loathe to admit it. But somehow he managed, and so eight days passed by without incident.

The evening of the ninth day found him alone in one of the common rooms. Many of the Fang's members had gone south and west for warmer climes and better payment at the first signs of winter's thaw, and the fortress was surprisingly calm without the constant bustle of the comings and goings of men and women earning their keep. Nino had already gone to bed, and when she had bid him good night he had noted that the swelling on her face was going down, the long thin scratches on her cheek already scabbing over. It would heal well; the scarring, if any remained, would be faint and nondescript.

He rubbed his chin and looked deep into the fire roaring in the hearth before him. When he was young, he had heard that long ago the old druids and sages of the land had been able to divine fate from flame; rumor told of the practice being continued by the shamans of the plains to the north.

The flames twisted and writhed, in dance that spoke of pure energy and freedom. He wondered how they did it, in the time it was said that dragons roamed the land. Fire, he knew, was the like the lifeblood of the world, running in pure, thick streams of energy in the rocky bowels of the earth the same way his own pulsed and throbbed in the veins of his body. How did they tame it? How did they make it serve?

"I have never seen you so still. What is it that weighs so heavily on your mind?"

He did not need to see the speaker to recognize the voice; the fine hairs on the back of his neck had already begun to prickle. "It's nothing; I'm tired, that's all."

The heels of her shoes clicked sharply against the stone floor, muffled somewhat as she walked over the threadbare rug in the center of the room. She leaned against the side of the hearth, and the fire no longer seemed warm and inviting—it was menacing, now. Dangerous. "Rightly so," she said. "You have done a fine job of watching the keep."

"It is only my duty, nothing more." He did not look at her, kept his gaze focused on the fire instead. He imagined he saw a face among the flames, thin and worn.

She laughed softly. It was not an unpleasant sound, and yet it still set his nerves on edge. "Duty, he says! Such a modest child." She crossed her arms over her chest and looked down at him. Her mouth—always set in a permanent smirk, it seemed—seemed to be more smug than usual. "And what else does your duty dictate?"

The woman was baiting him. He still did not look at her, and looked only into the fire; the face seemed to be framed by thin, limp hair and wore an expression of profound sadness and regret. It was his mother, he realized—his true mother and Brendan's first wife, as she had been in the last few days of her illness. "My duty is, first and foremost, to my father. It was he who made me what I am."

"And what of your mother? Has she not had any hand in your upbringing?" She leaned toward him, ever so slightly, and he caught a glimpse of the fire reflected in her strange gold eyes.

He cursed himself mentally for meeting her gaze for even that brief moment. "You are not she," he said tersely, forcing himself to stare into the hearth. There were tears on his mother's face now—but why was she crying? For what? For whom?

Sonia laughed again and stepped toward him. "But I am your father's wife. And when he is away, who shall I turn to when the dark chills my bones with fear?"

"How can you fear what made you?"

"You do not fear your father?" She stood directly in front of him now. The light of the hearth behind her splayed across her pale skin in sheets of pale gold and orange, illuminated the curves of her body in such a way that any normal man would have given in to his most base and carnal desire.

But he was not that man.

"No," he said. "I only fear his disappointment in me, that I may have let him down in some way." He cast his gaze to the side, so that he would not have to look upon her.

She leaned down to him, placed a hand on the side of his face. The fabric of her glove caught on the stubble of his cheeks, rasping across his skin like the tongue of some giant cat as she traced the slant of his jaw. "Fear rules all men," she murmured, "but you need not have fear for what your father does not know." Her pale face drew ever closer to his, eyes glittering with a malicious intent.

Her lips pressed against his with a ferociousness he did not expect, her hands splayed across his chest, fingering the edges of his jacket and running along the fabric of his shirt, tracing the lines of the hard, corded muscle that lay beneath.

He pushed her away and stood up hastily, the chair toppling to the side, forgotten, in his wake. She stumbled, but managed to catch herself with inhuman grace and smiled at him. "Fear rules all men," she repeated. "But more than fear, it is lust that dictates their actions." Her smile widened.

He left and headed to his own room, the back of his eyes already prickling with rage and shame. When he locked the door behind him, the tears were already flowing freely. He ignored them, climbed into his bed and drew the sheets up around his head the way he had done as a child.

_I'm sorry_, he whispered to the darkness. _I'm so sorry._

He did not sleep that night, or for many nights thereafter.

-x-x-x-

Brendan Reed and Linus returned a few days later. They brought with them bags of rich food and wine, purses heavy with gold and silver. The job had been a success. He did not find a chance to report to his father until the next evening, after the initial revelry and feasting, when the food had been stored and the gold properly hidden.

He stood once more in his father's office, opposite Brendan Reed and his wife, who lounged lazily in his lap like some overgrown kitten. She smiled at him, and he looked away.

"Sonia tells me that you did well while I was away," Brendan said.

"Thank you." He bowed his head. "I only did as my duty dictated. You and the Black Fang come before all else."

His father nodded. "That may be," he said, "but you are still my son. I am still proud."

And then he was dismissed. He left the room, and as he walked down the hall he heard his father laugh in response to some petty thing his new wife had said.

-x-x-x-

* * *

**Xirysa Says:** So this may be the longest oneshot I've written to date, but the fact remains that I'm actually very pleased with this, wordcount aside. Feedback, critique, thoughts, and opinions would be appreciated. Thanks for reading!


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